This episode features Melinda Fry, a student in Campfire’s Advanced Storytelling class. You can learn more about Melinda Fry on the Campfire website, https://cmpfr.com/events/spring-2021-advanced-storytelling/.
These episodes of The Campfire Storytelling Podcast showcase students who went through our Advanced Storytelling class. These students take a six-week class to prepare to tell a story about life and how they live it.
This episode was originally performed in April 2021, produced by Jeff Allen, and recorded live via Zoom.
This episode features Melinda Fry, a student in Campfire’s Advanced Storytelling class. You can learn more about Melinda Fry on the Campfire website, https://cmpfr.com/events/spring-2021-advanced-storytelling/.
These episodes of The Campfire Storytelling Podcast showcase students who went through our Advanced Storytelling class. These students take a six-week class to prepare to tell a story about life and how they live it.
This episode was originally performed in April 2021, produced by Jeff Allen, and recorded live via Zoom.
Oh, hello, Internet. I'm Steven Harowitz. And I'll be your host for this episode of Campfire at Home. Today, we gather at the Campfire to hear stories about life and how we live it. In this episode, I have something special for you because we have stories to share from the capstone event of our recent Advanced Storytelling class, featuring Carlo, Melinda and Jude. And the Advanced Storytelling class follows Campfire's philosophy on storytelling and public speaking, which states you focus on the message first, story always. It's always structured in a story format, and you include conversation with your audience throughout. So we kicked off this class with writing our bios using the narrative arc, which is a nice way to refresh ourselves on story structures. And then we stepped into some guided free write and reflection, learned about conversational speaking and stage presence, and then finally got peer feedback and rehearsed our story. From that point, we are ready to go, which brings us to this Campfire at Home episode you are listening to right now. This episode will highlight one of our four student storytellers. You can catch the other storytellers by subscribing to Campfire at Home, wherever you get your podcasts. Without further ado, please welcome Melinda to the Campfire.
Melinda Fry:Watching the footage of Mr. George Floyd's murder broke me wide open. It was soul-crushing for, uh, so many people around the world. When Mr. Floyd was calling out for his mama, I felt so many things: despair, outrage, disgust, shame, sorrow. And I had this sinking feeling in the bottom of my stomach that I had abandoned and betrayed Mr. Floyd in a million small ways, ways of inaction. The rawness and confusion of those thoughts and feelings pushed me to spend this past year reading and learning and examining what it means to be a racist and privileged. I thought all that was behind me, you know. Being racist did not fit into my self-image. And I thought I had done all that education. So I found it really painful to rediscover some of, of myself that wasn't pleasant. But after Mr. Floyd's death, I knew I was missing vital information, and I wanted to understand how in the world had my complacency and oblivion contributed to the problem. How did I get here? So I turned to my childhood stories, the stories that shaped me, I pushed myself to remember the community and the family stories and the lore of the neighborhood. The stories I found out there they're not particularly dramatic or interesting. And actually somehow the consistent banality of them makes it all the more insidious. I grew up in a rural area, south of Miami, Florida, far away from the famed beaches. It was in the 1960s, and the divided highway that separated my community had two names. It was known as U.S 1, and it traveled the length of the state. And in my area and other places, it was also known as South Dixie Highway. Seriously. Black people lived on the West side. White people lived on the East side, and in the middle, we shared grocery stores, banks, drug stores, hardware stores. Oh, well, what didn't share were schools or churches. My parents Mel and Charlie raised us with the belief that everyone was equal, separate but equal. We were taught to be respectful to everyone, no matter what. I lived in a white bubble, even though I was surrounded by many people of color in South Florida. I remember this one, particularly hot sweltering day. When we were heading to grandma's house, the traffic was slow and I was hot, hanging my head out the side window, letting the hot wind blow in my face. And there it was. It was the tallest building I ever saw that wasn't a hotel. It had to have, oh, I don't know, in my mind, 10 floors. It was giant. The concrete building itself looked old and rough. And I noticed the grounds didn't have the usual lush vegetation. I was used to seeing. No grass. Mainly just sandy dirt. It was stark. Before air conditioning buildings in Florida were designed with outdoor covered hallways and stairwells for cross ventilation. I knew the building was a residence because there were all these kids playing and laughing and squealing up and down the hallway, and the grownups, well, they were sitting in chairs, lined up in a row, outside their open apartment doors, fanning themselves, trying to catch a breeze, something we all did. I wasn't sure what I was seeing because well, high rises were a novelty in Florida. I asked my mom,"Who are those people?" And I remember seeing my mom's green eyes through the rear view mirror. And she simply said,"Those are poor people." Mom went on to tell me that poor people had to have a place to live too, so they lived together there. Mom didn't really address why all those poor people were Black. And I didn't really understand the words"poor people" anyway. I had so many questions. It was well, it was one of those topics and days where there was no real conversation about it. Mom ended it with,"It's just the way it is, Melinda." I got on her last nerve. And besides how was my mom going to explain that economic and racial forces pretty inseparable. She did add that my grandma, my dad grew up poor, but that he had worked hard. He went to school, and he made something of himself. It was that reinforced notion I would hear over and over again, that, bottom line, people are responsible for their circumstances, their successes, and their failures. Buying into that meant you really didn't have to actually see the disparity and discrimination. I was schooled in the flawed logic of separate but equal, but taught not to see the unequal playing ground. I got those lessons everywhere. When I was about 14 and the Fair Housing Act of 1968 was passed my Southern grandma, Anna Lee, we were having a conversation about how all people had the right to live wherever they wanted do. And my grandma, she agreed with me, but then she added,"There are rules." What rules? And then I got it."You mean Grandma," I said,"if a Black family moved next door, we couldn't be friends?" And she said,"No, no, you would be cordial, but you would not be friends. That's just the way things are, Melinda." We all have these stories. It's taken me 65 years to be uncomfortable in my own white skin, to even know that I should be, to finally explore what it means to be white in a country so divided by race. And you know what, you guys? Strangely enough, it's a welcome discomfort. It's embarrassing because I think I'm finally understanding what Black Americans have been seeing their whole lives about white people and the social construct of race. And now I see racism everywhere, everywhere. Once you see it, you can't unsee it. George Floyd and the police killings before and the ones that are still going on are horrifying, wrong, and senseless. I know right from wrong. As a result, I carry around this profound shame based on the color of my skin. It's curious right now I'm feeling nervous because bringing up my white shame is awkward. It feels as if I'm breaking some covert rule by admitting I have white shame. It's like some twisted betrayal in the same way we're taught it's not okay to tell family secrets. And we all have family secrets. It's easy to say,"Well, I'm not like those white people." Honestly, how can anyone tell? What exactly makes me so different? I've benefited from systemic racism. I want to be courageous and talk with other white people about race and white shame. It's it's taboo, you know? You know what I'm talking about? I'm curious about what folks have to say. I certainly haven't been taught to see this as my struggle, my responsibility, but I do now. I see it as a white people problem. I see white people problem to solve because white people control all the institutions. Wouldn't it be amazing to have an agreed upon national truth about race, an honest shared narrative of our history? I do not expect or want Black people to care about my consciousness-raising about race. I'm thinking Black Americans are sick of trying to drag so-called liberals and progressives along. I get the eye-rolling and the frustration. For me, the things like my ignorance, shame, guilt prevented me from looking too closely. I mean, predictably, I would get defensive and reactionary when I would get called out. If you and I were talking and I would tick off 12 reasons why I'm not a racist, it shuts down the conversation. Period. I get it. The conversation is uncomfortable, humiliating at times, but it's not going to kill me. Racism keeps telling Black people again and again, as we witnessed with the murder of George Floyd. For now, I'm taking responsibility for missing the mark. It's never too late to change. I'm on a journey. And before I end tonight, I invite you to join me and do just one thing differently. For instance, if somebody starts to tell an off-color joke, stop them. Just point blank ask,"Help me understand how this is supposed to be funny." By stopping them, You may be accused of not having a sense of humor, but you won't be complicit. With each small behavioral change, we all take a step in solidarity. For now, I wouldn't say I'm woke, but I'm working on it. Thank you for coming.
Steven Harowitz:That is a wrap. You can make sure to hear the other episodes from our Advanced Storytelling graduates by subscribing to Campfire at Home, wherever you get your podcasts. And if you liked what you heard, classic podcasting, please leave a review. It really does help other folks find the podcast. And it feels nice because it supports the students. We would love to have you at an event or tell your story, take a class. You can visit cmpfr.com. That's C M P F R.com for all of the details. And while our home base is here in St. Louis, you can attend an event or take a class from pretty much about anywhere. So again, visit our website cmpfr.com, C M P F R.com. As always, I can't get out of here without first giving a huge thank you to the Campfire team, our podcast producer Jeff Allen, and everyone who attends these live events. Now tonight's stories were recorded live on Zoom from all over. Thanks for listening to Campfire at Home. I have been your host, S teven Harowitz. Until next time.